9. Blue
9
Blue
I wake up to pain. I groan, trying to force my eyes to open as consciousness slowly creeps in and I remember why my hand is throbbing, but not sure why my head is. I finally manage to peel my eyelids back and I find myself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of a warm, heavy duvet over me. I lift my arm which makes the pain worse and study the neat little row of stitches in my palm and the night comes back to me slowly, in reverse.
That bottle of whiskey on the table. My empty glass. My hand on his lap, his thigh warm and strong, his hands confident as he sewed me up.
Nausea roils my insides when I recall the image of the needle going through my skin. Second time in my life I’ve had to get stitches without any kind of numbing agent. Shouldn’t there be some cap on that sort of thing? Or is karma just really out to get me?
I remember talking. A lot. What was I telling him? It had all grown strangely, and wrongly, comforting. How?
But then I recall what he’d said when I’d fallen over and he’d caught me. Not to drink something given to you by your enemy.
He drugged me. The fucking bastard drugged me.
I need to get up. Figure out where I am. I turn my head, hear an unfamiliar sound when I move as I take in the room. It’s not the one he put me in when he brought me here. This one is opulently furnished, luxurious, the duvet heavy and warm, the pillow beneath my head soft. Did he tuck me in? I shake my head at the thought and take in the elegant neutral tones. I can imagine the money that’s gone into this place.
The drapes on both windows stand open and bright sunlight pours in.
Startling realization dawns on me. Wren. What time is it? Did I sleep through the night? I never sent my sister the second part of the knock-knock joke. She’d have waited for it. It’s not morning anymore. I can tell that from the bright light. I always call her in the morning.
I bolt upright. Except as soon as I’m about half-way up, something seizes my throat, and I realize what that sound of moments ago was.
I’m collared. I’m fucking collared and chained to the bed by my neck!
“What the fuck?”
The chain is short, forcing me to keep my head bent when I turn to look at where it’s attached to a rung of the bed. The blanket falls away as I shift my position, and it’s at that point I realize I’m completely naked, dried blood still smeared on my skin from my hand. At least, I think it’s from my hand.
I peer down between my legs. No. No blood there. With an exhale, I take mental inventory, but nothing apart from my hand and head hurt. He didn’t touch me, not like that. I don’t think he would have. It’s not him.
The thought of my mind deciding he’s too good a human being to touch me while I’m out cold is unsettling to say the least. He only sewed me up so I wouldn’t bleed out in his house because he needed me to answer his questions. He needs me right now. That’s all. Once he has the information he needs, what will he do with me? Let me walk away? I doubt it. What will happen to Wren if something happens to me? They’ll put her in some crappy under-funded state institution. There’s no way I’ll allow that.
I tug at the chain. It’s thin but has no give. I can’t break it. I slip my finger under the collar. I should be able to get it off. It just snaps into place usually. But then I notice the one thing of mine he left in the room. The collar that goes with my uniform. It’s on the nightstand.
“Zeke!” I call out as loud as I can. I don’t get a response, so I do it again. My head throbs but I push through the pain. I turn to face the headboard fully to give the chain some slack as I examine it. Patience has never been my forte and I grip it again, my one hand useless when it starts to bleed a little. I get up on my knees and grip the rung I’m bound to. I’m forced to lean forward because the chain is so damn short. I tug at the chain, then, when nothing happens, I shake the rung.
“Now that is a sight I can get used to,” says a low, deep voice I’m starting to hate.
I look back over my shoulder to find Ezekiel St. James standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, casually sipping from a cup of coffee, and grinning that sly asshole grin of his. He’s just watching me.
Watching my bare ass which is fully on display in my current position bent over as I try to break myself out.
“You asshole! You fucking drugged me!”
I drop to a seat, turn to face him while trying to gather up the blanket that has slid to the floor so I can at least cover myself.
“Is asshole really the only word you can come up with? It’s getting boring, Bluebird.”
It’s startling to hear him call me by my full name. That name belongs to a different life. Then I remember giving it to him. What did I say my last name was? Smith?
“Untie me! Now!” I demand.
He chuckles, casually walks in. “You don’t give the orders, sweetheart.” He puts his coffee on the nightstand and digs two pills out of his pocket. “For the pain.” He holds them out to me.
“No, thank you! I’m not going to willingly swallow your drugs!”
“Advil,” he says. “Take them.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” He sets them on the nightstand, and I’m tempted, because everything hurts, but I don’t touch them.
He bends to pick up the heavy duvet which I only managed to get a corner of and sets it on my lap, then sits down beside me. He smells fresh and looks well-rested. His five-o’clock shadow is trimmed to perfection, his dark hair neatly combed back. He smells clean, of expensive soap and aftershave with hints of sandalwood and leather and why the fuck am I breathing him in?
“What are you going to do to me?”
His gaze skims over me. “Anything I want.”
I try to keep my expression neutral as I swallow, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“You’re mine now, Little Convict. You belong to me.”
“You drugged me,” I say after a beat, unable or unwilling to think about what that means. I take in his clothing, a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt of which he’s left the top button undone and has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My gaze catches on the tattoos circling both forearms. Twin snakes?
“Occupational hazard? You’ve done this before, right?” he asks.
I jut my chin out in response. How does he know?
“Back to your ass. I have to say, as a connoisseur, you do have an exceptionally lovely backside.”
I drag my gaze up to his. Fury roils inside me, boiling my blood at his casualness, his nonchalance. All I can do in the face of this is raise my arms, make a fist of my good hand, and attack.
He laughs, catches both wrists. “Settle down. Feisty little convict, aren’t you?”
“This isn’t a fucking joke! I’m not playing some stupid game?—”
“Neither am I, sweetheart,” he says, tone serious as he squeezes my wrists. “Calm the fuck down.”
“My sister!” I remember suddenly. “That man. Dex? What did he do?” I tug to get free of him.
“Take it easy.”
“I answered your questions. You said if I?—”
“I said take it easy. She’s fine. Wren’s fine.”
He knows her name. I didn’t tell him her name. I know that. I wouldn’t have.
“Dex did not even enter the facility,” he continues casually, switching his grip to keep both of my wrists in one of his hands and reaching into his pocket to take out his phone.
No. Wait.
It’s not his phone he’s taking out. It’s mine!
He whistles some tune and starts scrolling. I drag my gaze up to his. “How the hell did you get my password?”
“I guess you’re not the only one who’s learning how to hack into people’s lives and getting your hands on things that don’t belong to you,” he says, no mocking laughter in his expression this time. I keep my mouth shut. “Face ID. You can add that to your repertoire, I suppose.”
“Give me my phone.”
“Say please.”
“Please give me my fucking phone.”
“For a pretty girl you have a very ugly mouth.”
That makes me stop momentarily because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m not pretty. Not with the slash across my face.
When he releases my hands, though, I come back to what’s important. I flip him off after he tosses the phone onto my lap. I pick it up, keeping my arms pinned to my sides so the blanket doesn’t slide off.
He takes my damaged hand, surprising me with his gentleness as he studies the stitches. “Take it easy with this hand,” he says seriously, and, keeping hold of it, he takes out some of the things I saw in the suturing kit from his pocket. I watch, surprised yet again by this man’s actions when he rips the packaging off an alcohol swab and pats the skin around the stitches, cleaning it. “I mean it,” he says, letting me pull my hand away. “You need to let that heal. You don’t want me to have to re-do those stitches.”
I turn my attention to my phone and realize why he was so easy about handing it over. When I hold it up to my face, it doesn’t recognize me. When I try to punch in my passcode, I understand exactly what he’s done. He took over my phone. And he didn’t simply add his credentials to it but he removed mine altogether so I can’t access my own phone.
Stupid Face ID.
I drop the phone onto my lap and look up at him, tugging the blanket closer. His gaze is sharp, intent, and I remember how it felt to have my hand resting on his hard thigh. How he worked so deftly at stitching me up. How relaxed and confident he’d been. When I recall his fingers on other more intimate parts of my body, my face heats up. I clear my throat and glance away, reminding myself that I am his prisoner. That he is my enemy. Not to mention he is a man who can easily overpower me. Isn’t the chain at my throat evidence of that? I should be using my energy to figure out how to extricate myself from this situation, not get all freaking swoony over my kidnapper’s skillful suturing skills. Christ. What is wrong with me?
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“And you need a shower.” Before I can respond, he reaches down to unlock the chain from the bed.
I gather up the comforter which is too heavy to lug along and contemplate how I’m going to get up off the bed and make it to the bathroom while I keep myself covered. He smiles that arrogant smile which I guess is more like a smirk. I swear, his composure through all this is the most unsettling thing.
He lifts my chain like I’m a dog.
“Come, Blue,” he says like a man would say to his dog as he readies to take it for a walk. To add insult to injury, he makes some sound like a gitty up .
“I’m not your pet.”
“You should be so lucky. Up. Or down on all fours is fine too. It might be my preference, actually.”
I get to my feet, tugging the duvet around myself. I take a step but stop because I’m caught. I glance down and I’m very sure the toe of his shoe didn’t accidentally step on a corner of the blanket. I meet his eyes, give him a glare. He just smiles like he has no idea. I have no choice but to drop it. He shrugs a shoulder and begins to walk toward what I guess must be the bathroom and I stumble behind him, my lead too short.
When we get to the bathroom, he walks me inside, follows me and only then does he close the door. Only problem is he’s on the wrong side of it.
He releases my chain, and it drops heavy and cool between my breasts. His gaze follows its movement as it sways then settles before his eyes return to mine.
“Go on,” he says. “Use the bathroom.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What? Are you going to watch?”
He grins.
“No. No way. Get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I grit my teeth. “Please get out.”
“Aww. I think you may have a sweet side after all. But no.”
I exhale, muster all my strength and stride toward him. He watches my approach, my leash, my fucking leash swinging like a pendulum between my breasts, the lock hanging off the end of it brushing my clit with each step. It’s cold and I don’t like the sensations it’s sending through me as the weight of it swings back and forth.
A sound comes from inside his throat as he openly takes me in.
I take a long look at him. He’s tall, well over six feet. He’s broad shouldered and although not bulky, I see the definition of muscle in his shoulders and biceps through his shirt. I take in the twin tattoos, the scaly flesh of what might be snakes or dragons maybe circling his arms. I wonder where they meet.
But it’s not that that has me grin as I lift my gaze to his and tilt my head. Because his eyes have gone dark, and a glance down reveals the outline of his erection.
I change tactic and give him a wide grin. “You like looking at me, Zeke?” I ask in my most seductive voice which honestly probably isn’t very.
“It’s Ezekiel. We’re not friends.”
“No, we’re not.” I get closer, close enough to slap my hand over his erection and squeeze. He’s surprised, very clearly, and I relish the moment of victory even knowing he’ll punish me for it. “But tell me, do you like looking at me, Ezekiel ? I get the feeling you do,” I say, squeezing, sliding my hand up and down.
He exhales with what I can only call a deep, almost animal rattle from inside his chest and brushes a knuckle over my cheek. When I jerk my head away, he chuckles and next thing I know, he hooks his finger through the ring at the center of my choker and hauls me up on my tiptoes by it. This close, I can see the interlocking rings of black and silver that circle his eyes and feel the heat coming off his skin. I inhale, taking in his aftershave, the leathery, clean scent of him. He draws me nearer, and I set my free hand on his shoulders for balance. I swallow then lick my lips. His eyes narrow when they settle on my mouth. He leans close enough that the stubble on his cheek tickles my face. I hear his soft intake of breath, as if he’s inhaling my scent. And when he speaks, warm air brushes my ear making me shiver. Making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“I like looking at you very much, Bluebird Thorne,” he says in that low, slow tone of his, the deep timbre of his voice a vibration that passes from his chest to mine. “But do you know what I like even better?”
I swallow again, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
“Your hand squeezing my cock.” I gasp when he licks the shell of my ear before he drags his teeth over the lobe. Blood pulses through me, my nipples tightening to peaks and moth wings fluttering inside my stomach. “I think I’d like your pretty lips around it even more.” As he says it, he draws back to look at me and holds my gaze as he begins to push me down to the floor by the collar. “Yes, I think I’d like to see you on your knees with my cock fucking that dirty little mouth of yours. What do you think, Little Convict?”
I shake my head, pull my hand from around his erection and grip his arm, digging my fingernails into it though his shirt.
“Never. Let me go,” I tell him, recovering myself but just barely. I’m flushed red, I’m sure. I can feel the heat of my body’s betrayal on my face, and I have no doubt he can see clearly how he’s affecting me.
“Never say never. Don’t you know that?” He jerks me upright and this time, he doesn’t bring his mouth to my ear. This time, we’re nose-to-nose and the darkness inside his wolf eyes sends alarm bells ringing.
There’s a beast inside this man with his elegant, refined fa?ade. And I’ve woken it.
“Let me go.”
“If you don’t want to suck my cock, then you shouldn’t be wrapping your hands around it, should you?”
“Let me go.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Just let me fucking go.”
“Answer my fucking question,” he says through his teeth.
“No. No I guess I shouldn’t. Maybe you should keep your eyes in your head then. Or better yet. Give me my clothes back!”
“Not a quick learner, are you?” he asks, releasing me abruptly so I stumble backward. “Piss, Blue.”
“What?”
“You said you needed to, so do it. Then you can shower, and I can get on with my business.”
I gesture to the door for him to go.
He cocks his head like he doesn’t understand.
“You’re not watching me.”
“You lost all your rights to privacy when you decided to blackmail me.” He checks his watch. “You have one minute. I’m a busy man.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need to go.”
“Suit yourself. Get in the shower.”
“I’m not showering while you watch either.”
“You need to get the blood off you.”
“I wouldn’t be bleeding if it wasn’t for you.”
“You wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t decided to blackmail me. In. Now.”
I think it may be stupid, but I dig my heels in and shake my head.
“No? Okay, how about this.” He takes a step toward me. “Let’s learn lesson number one.” He takes another step and I have to take one back. “We’ll change roles, shall we?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll be the blackmailer and you be the blackmailee. Is that a word?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your sister left you a voice message. She sounds sweet.”
“What?”
“A knock-knock joke she’s waiting on?”
I feel my face pale.
He raises his eyebrows. “You should really text Wren back. And honestly, I’m curious myself. I mean, who doesn’t love a good knock-knock joke?”
“Give me my phone.”
“Step into the shower.”
“Give me my phone.” I wipe away a stupid traitor tear.
“Into the shower. You’ll piss. Then you’ll wash yourself and when I’m satisfied, you may tell Wren the rest of that joke. You left her hanging on a cliff, Blue. That’s not very nice, considering her mental state?—”
“Go to hell!” I scream and fling myself at him.
He catches me easily, gripping my arms and backing me into the glass wall of the shower. The tips of his shoes brush my bare toes.
“No, sweetheart, you go to hell . What’s happening here and now? That’s all your own doing. Tell me something. How does it feel, Little Convict? Being blackmailed? Having someone else take control of your life?”
“This is different. Wren’s… sick.”
“So, do as you’re told, and you can message her.”
He’s determined. He’s teaching me a lesson. And he’s not going to let me off the hook. So, I do as he says and step into the shower.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
I look at him over my shoulder.
“Face me.”
“Why?”
“You know what you have to do.”
“Zeke, I?—”
“Ezekiel. We’re not friends, remember. Face me.”
I do.
“You wanted to use the bathroom. So, squat and do it. While I watch.”
I swallow. He’s going to make me do this. In front of him. He’s going to humiliate me like this.
“Squat, Blue, and piss. Then you can text your sister.”
I stare up at him, my heart racing. “You’re sick,” I say through gritted teeth even as my eyes fill with hot tears. I can’t back down, though. I can’t cower. It’s what he wants.
She shrugs a shoulder.
“Will it get you off?” I ask and it’s a mistake, I know the instant the words leave my mouth because he’s on me before I can blink, before I can get away. He grabs a fistful of my hair and tugs my head backward, his predator’s eyes searching my face, settling too long on my mouth.
“I’m a little more complicated than that.” He tightens his fist in my hair forcing tears to burn the corners of my eyes. “Squat and piss,” he says, forcing me down. Once I’m squatting, he steps away, his gaze locked on mine.
And I do it. I look up at him, having to force myself to hold his gaze, to not look away even as my face burns and I do it, feeling the warm liquid against my thighs and Ezekiel St. James watching me, degrading me with his cool expression even as a tear slides down my cheek.
Only when I’m finished do I look away because I can’t hold his gaze anymore.
“Good girl. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I don’t answer. “Stand up.” He takes my phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. I stand, wipe my tears, closing my eyes when I hear Wren’s voice playing her part, asking ‘who’s there?’ in three repeated, increasingly anxious voice texts.
“Who’s there, Blue?” Ezekiel asks and I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and reach for the phone. He hands it over and it takes me a minute to get myself under control. I do it for her. I have to do it for her. If I’d been there, if I hadn’t dragged my feet because I didn’t want to be home, maybe I would have made it back in time. The difference was minutes. Minutes and she’d be the big sister I remember. But she’s not. And she never will be again.
“Blue,” he says.
I swallow over the lump in my throat and try to block out the ringing in my ears. I hit the record button. “Beets,” I say, hoping she won’t hear the trembling of my voice. I hit send and watch the second arrow show up, telling me it’s been delivered. I see the time. It’s almost four in the afternoon. She’ll be at her physical therapy session. She’ll get it soon though.
I turn to find Ezekiel watching me and the look in his eyes is not what I expect. Not at all. I hold the phone out. “She’ll text me back. And then I can give her the answer.”
He nods once, pockets the phone and it’s like all that aggression, all that hate, has gone out of him and we’re both just standing there, two hollowed-out husks that maybe were once human beings.
“I’ll keep an eye on it,” he says, then pauses and for a minute, I think he’s going to say something more and I’m not sure what I want but then he changes his mind and turns and leaves.
I exhale and suck in a ragged breath. I switch on the shower and stand under the flow, and I sob.